


cold hands.

by slimeprincess



Category: Survivor (US TV) RPF
Genre: F/F, Survivor Winners at War, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimeprincess/pseuds/slimeprincess
Summary: “I don’t think I can save you,” Michele says then, and the resigned quality of her voice seems foreign to her own ears; she can’t stand the sound of it
Relationships: Michele Fitzgerald/Parvati Shallow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	cold hands.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something I wrote to try and kill my writer's block, and also because I'm obsessed with these two juuuust a little bit.

The midday sun glints in the distance above the gentle waves, casting a bright glow over the Fiji beach below it. It seems as though the world is bathed in soft blues, slow and tranquil, the sound of softly breaking waves a peaceful soundtrack to what should be absolute paradise.

Beneath the soles of Michele’s feet, the sand is almost too hot; she’s thankful for this, as somehow, it’s almost grounding, and right now, unlike the sea, she’s anything but calm.

“I don’t think I can save you,” she says then, and the resigned quality of her voice seems foreign to her own ears; she can’t stand the sound of it. _I never give up_ , she thinks desperately, _and I’m not going to start now_.

Hugging her bare knees to her chest, Michele wants to say more, to follow that up with something meaningful, but her mind is hopelessly blank. Appealing to Nick, even bargaining with Wendell, all of it had left her with nothing – they had made their decision and try as she might, she could not sway them. _It’s a game_ , she tells herself, trying to brush off this sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but even though she knows it’s the truth, it does little to placate her. 

Although she can barely look Parvati in the eye, she turns toward her anyways, as though drawn to seek guidance from the older girl. Parvati just shrugs. “It’s not your job to,” she says, and it’s slightly cold, yes, but not bitter.

The tide is coming in, and as the foam remaining from the broken waves approaches the tips of Michele’s toes, the conversation turns to lighter subjects, and it’s almost like any other day in Fiji, with secrets whispered between two best friends, their hushed giggling drowning out the waves and the birdsong.

* * *

Late afternoon finds them seated beside each other on the swing that Wendell had so expertly crafted; neither says much of anything, but they don’t need to – the silence conveys more than enough. Wendell, Nick, and Yul are off somewhere, perhaps talking about Parvati’s inevitable demise. 

To Michele, the world is quiet, stagnant, and the two of them may as well be the only two human beings alive on the planet. Her left hand grips the rope beside her more tightly than is probably necessary, and the wood creaks quietly with the swing’s every movement – back and forth, back and forth.

Wordlessly, and without giving it much thought, Michele lifts her free hand, letting it rest atop Parvati’s, delicate and harmless. “Your hands are cold,” she remarks off-handedly, because they are – it’s a sharp contrast to the warm humidity of the air.

“Cold hands, warm heart,” Parvati replies with a flash of a grin as she adjusts the position of their hands so their fingers can interlace. Michele’s heart skips about ten beats and she feels as though it’s suddenly trapped inside her throat, preventing her from speaking.

Without waiting for a response, Parvati continues with, “you might just win this thing, babe.” She sounds casual, unbothered, almost _cheerful_ even, an antithesis to her frostier attitude this morning. _Maybe she’s accepted her fate_ , Michele thinks for half a second before laughing inwardly at her own foolishness. This is _Parvati_ , after all – she’s probably already planning out her return from the Edge of Extinction. 

“Yeah,” Michele replies distantly, “maybe I’ll win.” 

In the moment though, the thought seems almost insignificant; compared to the loud echo of her own heart beating quickly in her ears, everything else seems so muted.

* * *

The sun has already begun its descent below the horizon, casting shadows in saturated purples and oranges, when the time comes.

Torch in one hand, Michele is following Yul, ready to make the journey to tribal council, when she hears Parvati call out to her. “Hey, wait for me!”

Seeing her in the evening light like this, casually jogging to close the gap between them as she carries her torch, reminds Michele of being a teenager, of watching Micronesia, of seeing Parvati win. For just a moment, it’s overwhelming.

They walk side by side behind the others, and jokingly, with a twinkle in her eye, Parvati holds out the pinkie finger of her free hand, like a little girl about to make an oath. “Island besties?”

Michele smiles, swallowing hard as she links her pinkie with Parvati. “Yeah, Parv. Island besties.”

This time, both of their hands feel cold.

* * *

“The seventh person voted out of Survivor Winners at War…” Jeff Probst pauses for dramatic effect, and even though she knows it’s coming, Michele’s stomach still sinks to her feet. “…Parvati.” 

Getting to her feet, Parvati shares one last meaningful glance with her friend before approaching Jeff with her torch, waiting for the inevitable.

On her way, she waves goodbye to the rest of the Sele tribe, and without thinking, Michele blows a kiss. Parvati beams at her.  
“Parvati…” Jeff begins, and Michele hears the words in her head before he gets the chance to finish. “…the tribe has spoken. Take your torch and head to the Edge of Extinction.” 

And with that, her flame is extinguished.

* * *

The next morning is fittingly quite grey, and the new four member Sele all awaken just after the dawn. Michele rubs her eyes, squinting even in the dim light. Beside her, Nick sits up in the shelter, yawning and stretching. 

And the game goes on.

When she’s able to get a moment alone, Michele reaches into her bag, grinning to herself when her hand closes around the small, round object at the bottom. The fire token, too, is cold.

It’s no longer a maybe. This time around, the thought hits her with conviction, and her smile only widens. _I’m going to win this_.

**Author's Note:**

> c'mon, Winchele, you can do it one more time. <3


End file.
